


Eldritch Horror Soup for the Soul

by mothjons



Series: TMA hurt/comfort week 2020 [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Fic, it's mainly comfort i'm not going to lie, s1 dynamic, the power of good soup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:20:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26121055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothjons/pseuds/mothjons
Summary: Martin is sick, Jon attempts to help.Or,Martin is very easily confused by simple acts of kindness.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMA hurt/comfort week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896007
Comments: 23
Kudos: 173





	Eldritch Horror Soup for the Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Day three prompt for Hurt/Comfort Week - for the prompt "Sick fic"

“Ah – ah – _Achoo._ ”

Martin let out a long-suffering groan, his head falling against the cold wood of his desk. It felt almost soothing against his swollen face, but it wasn’t long until he felt that familiar tickle in his nose, and he was shooting back up – hand grabbing for a clean tissue.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered to himself, throwing the dirty tissue into the bin alongside all the others. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to focus on the computer screen before him, but the bright glow of it blurred into incomprehensible colours; the black text of the Wikipedia article smudging like wet ink on a page.

“Good lord, Martin,” came Jon’s voice, his head peering over at him from behind the heavy oak door of his office. “Are you quite done?”

“Hm?” sounded Martin, though it came out more as _mmph_. “I – oh, almost! Sorry, Jon – ” He cut himself off with a sneeze. “Just took me a while to get a hold of the gardener mentioned. Should have it on your desk by the end of the day.” For extra measure, Martin beamed at Jon, as if he would accept a smile over tardy paperwork.

Jon’s brow furrowed for a moment. “What? No, I – the sneezing, Martin.”

“Oh,” said Martin, his face falling. “Oh! God, Jon – I’m sorry. It’s just - ” Another sneeze. “Sorry! I’m – ” _Achoo._ “Jesus. I’m fine, sorry for the, uh – the _disturbance_.”

The lines on Jon’s brow deepened momentarily, but it didn’t look to be in annoyance. In fact, it seemed to be the opposite – in an expression that Martin could only describe as hurt, though, why that was, he wasn’t sure he could say.

“No, that’s, uh – ” Jon faltered, seemingly lost for the words to say. It was an unusual occurrence, to see the Archivist at a loss for words, when he seemed to be constantly brimming with them; many of the negative variety, usually strung together in regard to Martin, and his work ethic – or lack thereof.

Martin half expected Jon to punctuate his sentence with a ‘get back to it’, or ‘keep it down’, but instead he just slowly shuffled back into his office, his door closing behind him with a sharp click.

Martin’s eyebrows didn’t stay knotted in confusion long, before another sneeze broke through. He grumbled slightly, suddenly feeling very weak, and allowed himself to lounge back in his chair. He let his head fall back against it, and his eyes fluttered shut for a moment; taking in the peaceful comfort of darkness, and enjoying the break from the garish glow of the fluorescent lighting.

He didn’t think he had fallen asleep, but when his eyes opened, Jon was standing in front of him. His arms were wrapped tightly across his chest, his gaze on the floor. Martin jolted forward, as if in attempt to claw back some semblance that he hadn’t just been sleeping on the job.

“Jon,” he said weakly, his voice strained. “How can I – can I help you?”

A small tinge of pink blossomed on Jon’s cheeks, and for a moment, Martin thought he had said the wrong thing; until Jon cleared his throat, and gestured towards a small white paper bag that was placed on Marin’s desk. It wasn’t there before, that much Martin knew, and he eyed it with obvious suspicion.

“It’s soup,” said Jon, the eyeroll audible in his voice. “It’s not poisonous, Martin.”

“Soup?” echoed Martin. He pulled the bag towards him, and opened it up. As said, a small polystyrene cup sat inside, a plastic lid on top, that was speckled with condensation. Even through his blocked nose, Martin could smell the warm and herby smell that drifted out of the bag. “You brought me soup?”

“Do you not want the soup?”

“No, no – I want the soup,” said Martin, holding the bag a little tighter as if Jon would reach over and snatch it out of his hands. He looked down at it. “Why, uh – why, though?”

At this, the colour deepened. “You, uh – you don’t seem very, um – very well. I thought, maybe, it might, uh – might help. A little.” Martin just stared at Jon, eyes wide and dumbstruck. A beat passed, and Jon cleared his throat. “I see now that this was quite an inappropriate response to take.”

“No!” rushed Martin. “No, it’s – thank you, Jon. That’s very kind of you.”

“Right,” said Jon, as monotonous as always. “Very well, I’ll leave you to it.”

Before Martin had time to reinstate his filter, the words “Do you want to have lunch together?” were already falling out. Jon stared at him, unblinking, and Martin felt his own cheeks warm. “I have soup.”

If it had been in a statement, Martin would’ve been half inclined to disregard it; but this was in front of his eyes – Jon laughing. It wasn’t a full body laugh, no; just a snort of amusement, and he schooled it away quickly, and clasped his hands behind his back.

“You’re ill,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to catch it.”

“Right.” God, Martin could be stupid sometimes. “Sorry, that’s – no worries!”

There was silence between the two, and Martin watched, curiously, as Jon fumbled over to a discarded chair that was propped against the wall. He kicked it open, and sat down across from Martin.

Martin wasn’t sure what to say – everything that had happened in the last five minutes felt like some fevered delusion his brain had cooked up for him; Jon looking after him, laughing with him and now sitting with him. This would fuel his domestic fantasies for months.

“Well,” said Jon, gesturing towards Martin. “Are you going to eat?”

“I thought I was going to get you sick?”

_For god sake, Martin – has no one ever told you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?_

“You’ve been spluttering and coughing over the entire archives,” stated Jon, eyebrow raised. “I imagine if I’m going to catch whatever – ” He gestured vaguely at Martin’s face. “I’m probably going to get it anyway.”

“I’ve been using tissues.”

“Congratulations.”

“Just that – that I don’t think I’ve, uh – contaminated the archives, is all,” said Martin.

Inside his head, he could see smaller versions of himself repeatedly bonking his brain with a mallet – he was his own worst enemy at times.

“Thank you, though,” he said quickly. “For the soup, and for, uh – sitting with me.”

“That’s quite a low bar for gratification,” said Jon. A beat. “But you’re welcome.”

It was good soup.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments make my day, and if you want to chat - i'm @buccata on tumblr!!


End file.
